


Seven Devils

by johnwatso



Series: Ceremonials [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Fix-it fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season 3 fix-it, the adventure of the three garridebs reference, they're almost there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The easiest way to get Sherlock to perform was to threaten John. Moriarty knew it. Magnussen knew it. And Mary knew it, too. Which is why she used that exact tactic to lure him out of his little hideaway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Devils

**Author's Note:**

> Holy water cannot help you now  
> See I've come to burn your kingdom down  
> And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out  
> I'm going to raise the stakes, I'm going to smoke you out
> 
> Florence + the Machine, ["Seven Devils"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBcXe2B97TQ)

Mary hadn’t heard from John in three days. She could assume what had happened, but she didn’t have to. Mary had never needed to fill the gaps in a story because she always knew exactly what was going on, even when her feeble-minded peers didn’t. The way John had moped over Sherlock’s death, the way he spoke about him, the way he looked at him, the way he barely touched her since she shot Sherlock; it was only a matter of time, she thought.

She had always suspected that Sherlock meant something more to John than he would let on - even to himself, she imagined - but she could never anticipate Sherlock returning those feelings. Both John and Mary (separately) thought that Sherlock was incapable of such love. When she heard Sherlock’s speech at their wedding and saw the way him and John looked at each other - the _mutual_ pining that went on - she knew that she had to think on her toes, as she had done for most of her life. When Sherlock deduced her pregnancy, Mary hadn’t objected. It was a careless move, but, being newlyweds and all, she thought she could fall pregnant soon enough. How was she to know that her husband’s libido and mood would sour when he was separated from his darling best man for too long?

When Sherlock caught Mary in Magnussen’s office, well, she couldn’t resist a perfect set-up, could she? And again, Sherlock’s deductions had gone unquestioned - _that was surgery_ \- and who was she to discredit the great detective with the embarrassing hat? A part of her did feel badly for him that night. When he tried to appeal to the moral compass she knew she lacked - _No, Mrs Watson, you won’t -_ he was doomed. It wasn’t his fault that he loved John the way he did. It also wasn’t his fault that he loved her, too. As his former self would have decreed, love is a dangerous disadvantage.

Once her lie was out (well, most of it, anyway), they all realised how similar she was to Sherlock, why John might choose her, but they didn’t realise that, like Sherlock, she, too, lacked the intimacy and love that she deserved. Born an orphan, she hadn’t known the love of a mother or father or siblings. She had friends here and there, but only to manipulate or extort, like Janine. All of her former ties were severed when she met John. 

The first time she saw her future husband, she was hired by Jim Moriarty to keep an eye on him and make sure Sherlock died and stayed dead, or else she had to pull the trigger. She knew _of_ him, but she couldn’t have anticipated his magnetism. She knew she had to have him as soon as she saw him in person, outside St Bart’s hospital the day Sherlock jumped. Her surveillance led her to work at the same clinic as John and she soon captured his attention, too. She helped him to grieve and move on (or so she thought). If Sherlock had only stayed dead, it would have all worked out perfectly. If Sherlock hadn’t decided to love John back, too. Now it was a mess and, as usual, she had to clean it up.

Mary decided not to put it off any longer - she had to face her husband and Sherlock soon enough. She was eager to put this whole chapter of their lives behind them and continue the life she planned out; a life of TV and neighbours and maybe she could even fall pregnant for real this time. A child could bond them, she knew that. It would also make sure that John didn’t leave again, not that he’d want to leave once Sherlock was out of the picture. 

Sighing, she pulled her red coat on and mentally prepared for the upcoming inconvenience while she hailed a cab to Baker Street.

———

Mary stood at the doorway to the pool where they first confronted Moriarty. “Oh, John,” she said, “what an idiot you turned out to be. My dear husband has gone and fallen for yet another psychopath.”

Sherlock wanted to shout out that he wasn’t a psychopath, to make sure John knew it, but he found he couldn’t even open his mouth to speak. Was he drugged? He struggled and struggled, but it felt as though there was an enormous weight preventing him from even moving. He wanted to tell Mary that _she_ was the idiot, that John didn’t love him, not like that, but it was no use.

Mary smiled and Sherlock’s heart softened fractionally. Then, she pulled out her gun and shot John, right in his heart. Sherlock didn’t even have time to react. John fell at Sherlock’s feet, his body motionless, the blood draining from him. Sherlock couldn’t even yell out his name or hold his hand, couldn’t even tell him that he loved him.

Sherlock woke up with a start.

“Shhhh, it’s fine, it’s fine,” John was saying, stroking his back while he held Sherlock tight against his body.

He had been dreaming of his friend, as usual. His nightmares had become horribly predictable. It was always either Moriarty or Mary at the trigger - sometimes a combination of the two, with one seamlessly replacing the other, in the way that only a dream can allow for. John was always shot right in his heart and bled out at Sherlock’s feet while he looked on, helpless. If Sherlock believed in the pseudo-scientific, he might have found reams of meaning in the recurring dream, but Sherlock was more of a practical mind, reading and discarding Freud’s _The Interpretation of Dreams_ in his preteen years, when human behaviour had been of more interest to him than just motives for murder. 

“Okay?” John asked eventually, when Sherlock’s breathing became more regular.

“Fine. Just the same stupid dream again,” Sherlock replied, more annoyed than uneasy by this point.

“Want to tell me about it, then?” John asked, but he knew the answer already.

“Dreams are insignificant. Plus, there’s nothing more infuriatingly narcissistic than forcing the narrative of your unconscious mind upon someone else,” Sherlock hissed at John.

“But I genuinely _want_ to hear all about your unconscious mind, you miserable prat,” John insulted good-naturedly. This was the way John offered any sort of endearment these days, making sure not to cross the invisible line he placed between them. 

Sherlock took a moment to think about it. There wasn’t technically anything wrong with telling John about his dream. He could simply omit a few… unnecessary elements and John could finally leave the subject alone.

“Alright,” Sherlock breathed, “It’s always the same. We’re at the pool…” Sherlock didn’t even need to say what pool and John tensed a little bit, “…and… and Mary is there. Sometimes it’s Moriarty himself. Dreams are so nonsensical, you know, there’s really no point in even giving them the time of day -“

“The pool?” John urged him on.

“Yes. We’re at the pool and Mary or Moriarty is there. And I can’t move or speak while they prattle on about God knows what and then they pull a gun and shoot you right through the heart. And you die and there’s nothing I can do to stop it from happening,” as he spoke, Sherlock’s voice weakened.

John resumed his soothing ministrations on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock took the opportunity to bury his head in John’s neck. He had come to regard the little space as a hideaway of sorts. It smelt strongly of John and it was dark and isolated while still being wrapped up in John. He couldn’t think of anything more perfect. They stayed that way for well over half an hour, in their little hideaway where the future couldn’t reach them.

———

Mary made her way up the stairs to 221B. She tried to be as silent as possible, but, once she reached the top of the stairs, she realised it was a futile attempt. Of course Sherlock was waiting for her. He was dressed in his titillatingly tight trousers and equally-as-figure-hugging shirt, facing the window with his violin. As she entered the sitting room, he finished off the piece he was playing and turned around.

“Good morning, Mary,” he acknowledged, and gestured for her to sit in John’s chair, “Tea?”

“That would be lovely, thanks,” she said as she settled herself, “Where’s John?”

“He should be out in a minute,” Sherlock responded, pulling down the tea set and boiling the kettle.

“Didn’t take him long to move into your bedroom, I see.” Mary nodded towards the closed door of Sherlock’s bedroom with her head.

He ignored her and finished with the tea, laying it out between his chair and John’s.

As he sat down, John came out of the bedroom, taking cautious steps. He entered the sitting room without acknowledging her and pulled the desk chair to face them and sit down.

Eventually, the silence grew claustrophobic, and Mary decided to speak first.

“John. Come home,” Mary pleaded, looking him right in the eyes.

“We both know that’s not going to happen,” John replied, adopting his Captain persona.

Mary rolled her eyes, mildly irritated that she’d have to put up a fight about it.

“You’ve figured it out, then?” she asked, looking from John to Sherlock, “Didn’t take you long.”

Sherlock was regarding her with open curiosity. “We don’t have to do this, you know. It would be easy for you to just walk away. I think it would be the most courteous solution to all this.”

Mary snorted, “Walk away? I’m not _like you_ , Sherlock. I can’t just walk away from someone I love. Someone who loves me.”

Sherlock avoided her eyes.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t told him yet,” she directed her incredulity at John. “Oh, John, do put the poor man out of his misery.”

“Mary,” John warned in a low tone, “Shut the hell up.”

Mary ignored him, “Poor, poor Sherlock. What’s the saying? Always a bridesmaid and never the bride? How long exactly did you pine here in Baker Street after our wedding?”

Sherlock was still avoiding eye contact, but John was furious enough for the both of them. “Just stop it now!”

“Come on, John. Tell him. Don’t let your precious detective carry a torch he thinks you’ll never light,” Mary knew she was being unnecessarily cruel, but she couldn’t help it. Knowing John came out of Sherlock’s bedroom, seeing them so comfortable in domesticity alongside one another - it infuriated her.

“Sherlock,” she went on, forcing him to look at her, “John won’t tell you, but it’s obvious to anybody that he’s besotted with you. Has been ever since I met him. Judging from his little blog, from before that, too.”

Apparently, that was John’s limit. “That’s enough!” he exploded, standing up, his left fist, as always, clenching and unclenching, “You can leave now.” He lowered his face to meet hers, his smile dangerous. This was the John she, astonishingly, loved the most: the vicious sneering solider.

Mary ignored him, turning her focus to Sherlock once again. “You see, Sherlock, we _do_ have to do this. Absolutely we do.”

“And what might ‘this’ entail exactly,” Sherlock asked, air-quoting her vague term.

“We’ll see,” she said simply. “All I know is I’m not willing to sit around and wait for what I want. Lovely seeing you boys. Look after each other.” And with that, she was off.

She only made it to the bottom of the stairs before the tears welled up in her eyes. She was a complete idiot for allowing them to get to her like this. John was _hers_ and the fact that Sherlock thought he could have him made her incandescent.

———

John let out a gust of breath once Mary was gone, letting his posture relax. And then, remembering what she had said, he stiffened again and turned towards Sherlock, who was still seated. Deep in thought, Sherlock had his hands steepled in front of his mouth, his eyes betraying nothing.

“Hungry?” John asked, trying to break the tension, putting his feelers out.

“Hmm? Oh. No,” Sherlock waved his hand and resumed his thinking position.

While John made and ate lunch, he thought about what might be going through Sherlock’s mind. Surely Mary’s comments wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. He hoped it wouldn’t put Sherlock off, though. He could repress any feelings as long as it meant he could stay with Sherlock, share a bed with him. He didn’t need anything more if his friend couldn’t give anything more. He was sincerely fine with whatever was on offer. 

When he couldn’t handle the anxiety anymore, John decided to approach Sherlock, who was still in his thinking position, except he had moved and was lying across the couch. John walked over to him and peered down. Sherlock offered no interaction. Rolling his eyes, John lifted Sherlock’s head and sat under it, setting him back down softly. He began their usual hair-stroking routine - John running his fingers through his friend’s hair while Sherlock pretended not to care, but nudged ever so slightly into the touch. John felt relieved that the status quo of the past week had not been broken, but the fluttering in his gut needed more reassurance.

“Should we tell Mycroft about our visitor?” he asked Sherlock.

“No need. He probably already knows. Big Brother is always watching, John.”

“Oh, a pop culture reference. Well done.”

“Do shutup.”

John playfully ruffled Sherlock’s curls before continuing.

“I hope… I hope that what she said… It didn’t bother you, did it?” he stuttered.

“Why should it bother me, what anybody thinks?” Sherlock snapped.

“Well. Because it’s true.”

John hadn’t meant to reveal so much; the confession stumbled out of him before he could catch it and seal it inside, lock it away. Sherlock stilled under his fingers. He wished he could know what he was thinking, but he just looked blank - alarmingly similar to the time John had asked him to be his best man. He wanted to apologise, take it back, but he knew it was too late. It was the truth and there it was, fermenting in the air around them.

Eventually, Sherlock sat up, swung his legs forward onto the floor and lifted himself off the couch. He stood there for a few seconds, as if in a daze, and then strode into his bedroom and shut the door quietly.

_Shit. Shit shit shit_. John rubbed his hand over his face and tried to calm himself. At least Sherlock hadn’t stormed off in a strop. Whatever had just happened, though, it wasn’t good. It was decidedly _not good_. John wondered whether he should follow Sherlock or just let him be for a while. His stomach was slowly knotting with anxiety and he wondered if he should come up with some sort of excuse, maybe refer to him as ‘mate’ again (because that went so well the last time). If John lost Sherlock as his friend, he didn’t know what he’d do, where or who he’d even be. After Afghanistan, he was _this_ close to looking down the barrel of his own loaded gun before this strange, rude consulting detective happened to his life. He couldn’t fathom a situation in which he’d have to leave him, especially after their relationship had been so speckled with tragedy and loss already. John didn’t know how to approach the situation at all, and it was all the more terrible because Sherlock didn’t respond to things as most other people might, so John didn’t even have a standard to anticipate.

Since Sherlock and him had become more intimate, John had imagined that they’d have a serious talk at some point, but he didn’t think it would come so soon after he decided to move back. Hell, he hadn’t even moved all of his clothing back. Everything was complicated enough already, what with his wife threatening their very existence and all. This was an unnecessary complexity that they didn’t have time to indulge in.

In the midst of all of John’s apprehensive musings, Sherlock exited his bedroom, buttoning up a suit jacket as he strode to the door.

“Going to see Mycroft,” he clipped out and left, pulling his coat on as he practically galloped down the stairs.

John felt as though his stomach was on fire. As far as days went, he couldn’t imagine how this one could become much worse. After all the years of pining and holding it in, he had blurted out a half-arsed love confession at a time like this. He had always imagined that, if the day ever came where his love for Sherlock was made known, it would be a grander gesture, with music swelling and a world-turning kiss to follow. All he had to show for his blunder was an empty flat and the bile that was threatening to make itself known to his oesophagus.

Instead of staring at the door all day, John tried to occupy himself with books, TV, his stupid blog, anything to keep his mind and nerves off of Sherlock, but he couldn’t really invest his attention in much else. When Sherlock still hadn’t returned a couple of hours later, John decided to call it a night. After considering it and feeling as though his chest was going to implode, he showered and settled into his own bed, alone.

———

It was about 2am when Sherlock opened John’s bedroom door. John could barely make out his silhouette as he hesitated in the entryway and then cautiously closed the door behind him. After some time, he made his way to John’s bed and climbed in on the right side. John lay perfectly still on his back, wanting to see what his friend did next, thinking he had spooked him enough for one day. Astonishingly, Sherlock nudged closer to John’s body and curled himself around him, throwing his right leg over John’s, his arm around John’s midsection. 

“Goodnight, John,” the baritone voice like velvet to John’s uncertain ears.

John responded by covering Sherlock’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers together. Sherlock nuzzled his way into John’s neck - a curious habit he had recently formed - and fell asleep soon after.

———

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock was already gone. If the sheets on the other side of the bed weren’t twisted up and out of the bottom of the mattress, John might have mistaken Sherlock’s coming in the previous night for a dream. When John went downstairs to make breakfast and start the day, he saw that Sherlock wasn’t home. As agitated as he was, John decided to give Sherlock space to cope with the seemingly unwanted revelation that had taken place the day before. It was only fair, John thought - it wasn’t as though Sherlock had _asked_ John to fall in love with him; he just had. While John couldn’t feel guilty for that fact, he did feel bad for springing it on Sherlock, even though he knew his friend didn’t appreciate sentiment and declarations thereof. All John could do was wait until Sherlock got home and suss out his mood. Then, depending on how tense or open he was, they could possibly speak about it. Either way, John was dreading it.

———

Sherlock slammed the door of the black car, annoyed that Mycroft couldn’t just text like a normal person. He was glad to have new information on Mary, but he wasn’t looking forward to relaying it to John. So much had happened over the past couple of weeks and he felt responsible for a good majority of it. If only he had seen Mary for who she was. If only he hadn’t forced John back into her arms. If only he hadn’t also fallen for her charm and wit. If only. It was infuriating to Sherlock that he should now be someone with purposeless regrets - it wasn’t as though he could reverse any of his actions.

He took the stairs two at a time, eager to have this conversation behind them. There were choices to be made and, surprisingly, Mycroft had allowed Sherlock to make them. The only problem was that Sherlock didn’t feel he could make these decisions regarding Mary without asking John. He wished, not for the first time, that everything could have been different. Perhaps if he didn’t jump that day… again, a futile chain of remorse that would serve nobody.

As soon as Sherlock saw John in his chair with his cup of tea, he felt a bit less anxious. Just being close to John had a calming effect on Sherlock, a fact that he kept hidden, and yet was unashamed of. John had always felt like home, but he also felt like his anchor, the grounding force in his chaotic life and, especially, mind.

“John,” he began, apprehensively averting John’s curious eye contact. “Mycroft has been ‘round…”

Sherlock made his way to his chair and sat down, unbuttoning his suit jacket and settling into a comfortable position.

“It seems… It seems as though Mary has figured out the truth about Moriarty and is more than happy to use it against us.”

“What you mean? Like, tell people?”

“Yes, John. Tell people. Tell anyone who will listen, presumably. If this gets out,” Sherlock exhaled, suddenly exhausted, “then that trip to Eastern Europe will probably be back on - or something worse. And Mycroft will most certainly be held liable for his little ploy.”

“What does she want? How do we stop it?”

Sherlock took a moment to really look at his friend. He had bags around his eyes, his hair was dishevelled from being raked through over and over by troubled fingers and his outfit was hastily put together, as though he really couldn’t be bothered. Sherlock was suddenly overcome with the urgent need to touch John. Anywhere. Just to be physically comforting and comforted. He stooped in front of John and reached out an uncertain hand to lay on John’s knee, just like John had done on the night of his stag do all those months ago. Back then, the touch had excited Sherlock, had felt like a game between just the two of them. Now, Sherlock’s touch was less invigorating and more grounding. For some reason, he thought better when he could be close to John.

John blinked at Sherlock a few times, worry pulling his mouth into a fine line, before sighing and placing his own hand over Sherlock’s.

“She wants _you_ , John. It’s always about you to her. And, to her mind, I’m the only thing standing in her way. She wants me to meet her. Alone. Mycroft will try to protect me, but he can’t let anyone else in on this, for obvious reasons. It’s just me and him on this one, a few trusted agents.”

“And me,” John stated simply, looking down at their hands.

“And you,” Sherlock’s mouth quirked up to one side, briefly. “Anyway, it’s obvious to us that she wants to… get me out of the way. It’s surprisingly straightforward. I expected a bit more from someone with such a compelling history. A bit of a letdown, really. Still…”

John coughed pointedly.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked.

“Not really.”

“Right. I’m to meet her in three days. She’ll text me a meeting place an hour before.”

“Well, I’m coming with,” John squared his shoulders.

“John… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

John stared at Sherlock, daring him to say otherwise.

“She’s dangerous.”

“So am I. ‘Sides, I like danger, remember?”

“She said to meet her alone.”

“I’m sure we can fool her somehow. You and Mycroft can figure it out.”

“She… she wants to kill me, John.” At this, Sherlock looked away, at anything other than John’s face. “What if… what if…”

John reached out to grab Sherlock’s chin, pulling it up to meet his eyes.

“We’ll do anything necessary to make sure she doesn’t. Anything.”

Sherlock looked at John in shock. Anything? Surely he didn’t mean…

“We’ll try to stop her. To just stop her,” Sherlock said, although he knew, even while he was saying it, that the words were pointless. Mary was relentless. The only way to stop her would be to end her life, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he could do that. Despite everything, he still loved Mary, too, and he knew that John might have been angry and bitter, but the tenderness he had felt for her at one point couldn’t just vanish in the space of a couple of weeks.

John looked contemplative, and Sherlock knew that he wasn’t naive as to what it might take to stop Mary.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock murmured and couldn’t help but bury his face in John’s lap, trying his hardest to ignore his nausea. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand the ache in his chest or the clawing feeling in his stomach.

“It will be fine. It’s fine,” John assured him, running his hands through his hair.

———

John woke with a start, expecting to still be tangled in his friend’s long legs, his face tickled by long black curls. Instead, he heard murmuring from the sitting room and the right side of the bed was cold. If he strained his ears, he could make out Sherlock and one other person - he guessed Mycroft - but he couldn’t hear what they were saying.

After a quick change, John decided to see what the agenda was for the day and frowned when the brothers let their conversation trail off as he walked into the sitting room.

“You ever get the feeling someone was just talking about you?” he joked, trying to ease the awkward tension.

“Good morning, John,” Mycroft responded, unsurprisingly feigning nonchalance.

John nodded at Mycroft and inclined his head in Sherlock’s direction.

“John,” Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eyes, “we were just… planning.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Didn’t think I’d need to hear it?”

Nobody said anything for about half a minute, after which point John couldn’t suppress his frustration anymore.

“Sherlock. I thought we agreed…”

Mycroft chose to interrupt smoothly. “I’m sure you’re aware that there’s a large element of… danger… with Mary, especially where you’re concerned.”

John kept glaring at Sherlock until he looked up at him. There was no way he was going to let the Holmes brothers push him out of this case. It concerned him as much as it did them, if not more so. When Sherlock finally did face him, it was sheepishly, as though he thought he could get away with excluding him - ‘it was worth shot’, his little smile said.

“Alright, John. What we’ve been considering is…” a brief glance at Mycroft, “the possibility… the probability, rather, that this is a trap. It’s just too simple. She knows we know and she undoubtedly knows we’ll have backup in some form. We’re trying to uncover her actual plan. Problem is, she’s been invisible since she texted Mycroft. There’s been no talk of her, no footage. It’s as though she has vanished.”

John had a nagging thought. “I don’t think she’ll be there. I’m pretty sure she set up the whole thing to make us think we won’t be hearing from her until the day of the meeting. She said she doesn’t wait around for what she wants, remember? Mary was never one to take a passive role. Hinted that we should get engaged for weeks before I proposed.”

Sherlock steepled his hands, considering John’s contribution.

“I know you won’t like this, brother dear, but I think it might be for the best if you and John left Baker Street for a few days. At least until Wednesday.”

Sherlock surprised them both by agreeing with a short nod and standing up, hinting at Mycroft’s welcomed departure.

Within half an hour, John and Sherlock were packed and ready to book into a nearby hotel. To Sherlock’s annoyance, one of Mycroft’s add-ons drove them in a slightly-less-conspicuous-than-usual silver car (the only compromise Mycroft agreed on was this).

———

Sherlock sat at the little table in their hotel room, agitatedly shaking his leg while he tried to occupy his mind. He hated being inactive. John was sitting on his bed (their room came with two beds, but Sherlock was sure one of them wouldn’t be used), flicking through channels without even seeing them.

Huffing out a disgruntled breath, Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, using the slight tug to keep his mind from spiralling. He wished he had his little box of forbidden paraphernalia with him, or a cigarette at the very least. Not only was the boredom of waiting around doing his head in, he also had to face the fact that Mary was serious, and that their problems weren’t over. It felt like her presence was a shadow that never allowed them warmth or peace. He couldn’t even respond to John’s admission a few days prior - the sentimental one. There was nothing more intriguing than the idea of him and John finally taking the next step in their relationship, but how could he even wrap his mind around that while John’s wife was still haunting them? At the time, saying nothing had seemed an appropriate response, but Sherlock knew that it wasn’t an ideal one in John’s eyes. It was just tiring to make things so complicated. They didn’t do that. They didn’t talk about their feelings like that, and Sherlock felt cornered and petrified. One wrong move or word and John might decide to leave after all. It felt as though John’s decision to stay at Baker Street with him was a rushed, unthought-out one, and he would do anything not to make him regret it or change his mind. He couldn’t risk opening his mouth to say “me too,” and let his brain rattle off an alarming list of all 673 things that he loved about John.

Still tugging at his scalp, Sherlock noticed that John wasn’t watching TV anymore. The remote was still in his slack hand, but his focus was on Sherlock, not the irrelevant sports recap show on the screen. When Sherlock crinkled his forehead in enquiry, John got up and stood directly behind him. Slowly, he took hold of Sherlock’s hands and removed them from his tangled hair, soothing his thumbs over knuckles. 

Sherlock sighed in relief, the distraction much-needed. The cluster of bees in his stomach began to settle at last, and he was able to just _breathe_ without feeling as though the room would spin around if he closed his eyes on it.

“Better?” John breathed.

Sherlock responded by turning his hands in John’s so that they could be palm to palm.

“It’s going to be fine. I know it doesn’t feel like it is. But it will be,” reassuring as ever, his John.

“Of course it is,” Sherlock retorted, unable to truly give himself over to John, even after everything.

Luckily, John seemed to know by now that Sherlock’s harshness was mostly a false display - he was spectacular at uncovering the reasons for Sherlock’s inbuilt defence mechanisms and had taken to ignoring any outbursts instead of becoming offended or defensive in turn.

John simply took the opportunity to slip his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, something he seemed to love doing, and apply pressure to his scalp in slow, measured circles. It was a different kind of stimulation, and it worked. Sherlock felt more at ease than he could remember. He even stopped craving cigarettes and needles.

———

_Meet me in the bar of your hotel. 3am. Alone or John pays. x x x M_

The message came in just after 11pm, when John and Sherlock were winding down for the night. As soon as he opened it, Sherlock’s heart stuttered, his brain scrambling at different possibilities and allowances. Before he even reached any conclusions, he knew he had to do what she said. Mary wasn’t playing a game. She wasn’t like Moriarty, picking at threads to see what happened, to see how Sherlock could dance. In that way, she could outplay all of them - by simply not playing. Mary wasn’t interested in a chase or an elaborate, sensational conclusion; she was obsessed with winning, with claiming John. In a way, it made Sherlock empathise with her. He knew what it felt like to love John Watson and watch him choose someone else. He knew that he would do anything for his friend, too, but he liked to think that everything he did was _for_ John, not to keep him. Although it made his heart feel like it might physically melt, he would rather give John to someone else if it meant that he would be happy.

So, shortly after receiving the text, Sherlock feigned sleepiness, curling into John and evening out his breath. John turned the TV off soon after and within forty minutes, he was asleep, their limbs wrapped around each other. Sherlock lay in the dark, listening to John’s breathing. He was willing to die for this man - for real, this time. As long as he could make sure that Mary left John alone, stopped hurting him forever, he was willing to take the bullet that Mary was certainly intending for him.

At quarter to three, Sherlock carefully untangled himself from John’s arms and legs. He made sure John was still asleep before pulling on his suit and coat and leaving their room.

He took the stairs to the ground floor, painfully aware of every sound his feet and breath made. His heart was beating so loud to his own ears that, if he didn’t know better, he would have thought that it was audible to others, as well.

Before opening the heavy wooden doors, Sherlock forwarded Mary’s text to Mycroft.

———

The easiest way to get Sherlock to perform was to threaten John. Moriarty knew it. Magnussen knew it. And Mary knew it, too. Which is why she used that exact tactic to lure him out of his little hideaway. She found it pathetic that they’d resorted to trying to sneak away to hotel rooms in the first place. It was, frankly, a bit insulting. Did they really think she wouldn’t find them? Mary also thought Sherlock would honour their agreement and wait to meet her. Not that she planned to wait that long before showing up. She learned from Moriarty that Sherlock always expected things to be so clever, even when they could really be taken at face value. And the face value of this situation? Mary wanted John. Sherlock wanted John. One of them would have to forfeit, by whatever means. 

Mary took a seat at the empty bar, checking her phone for the time. Sherlock had a few minutes. Although she knew he would show up (and be on time), the adrenaline was difficult to sift through - was this nervousness or excitement? 

Responding to a slight creak outside, Mary relaxed her posture, aiming for conversational laid-back. This promised to, at least, be an interesting transaction.

———

“Hello Sherlock. Glad to see you got my text,” Mary greeted him as soon as he walked into the bar. 

Glancing around, Sherlock saw no alternative exits. The room was fairly small, fitting only a couple of tables with casual seating and a modest bar with a few stools. There wasn’t really anywhere to go - not that he had the choice, regardless. This was about John, and where John was concerned, Sherlock didn’t really see another course of action.

“Mary. Good to see you,” he nodded.

“Oh, let’s not lie to one another, Sherlock. You know I can always tell when you’re fibbing.”

“Alright. Let’s.”

“What are we going to do about our little predicament?” Mary was acting as though they were discussing a hard decision at work, or a compromise on choosing what to watch at the theatre. Sherlock decided to let her lead, thinking it best not to vex her, seeing as she had proven herself trigger-happy in the past.

“You tell me. You were the one who asked me to meet you here.”

“Well. You know this could be done. If you’d just let me have him. He did promise me ’til death.”

“Hmm. He promised a Mary Morstan all of that, I believe. Seeing as you’re not her, I don’t think your claim will hold any legal water. Besides, don’t you think John could be left to make his own decisions? He isn’t property.”

Mary laughed, nasty and hollow. “We both know John will do whatever you tell him. Worked well enough after I shot you. How did it feel when he forgave me for that, by the way? Must have hurt like a bitch. I’d know. He went running back to you even after all you put him through. That’s quite an impressive handle you have on him.”

Sherlock ignored that. “I think it should be easy enough to let John decide. We can just call him down here, get it over with… Unless you’re afraid he doesn’t want you, Mary? That he won’t choose you?”

“He doesn’t know what he wants. I’m sure you’ve noticed it by now, but he’s a bit of an idiot. An adorable idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. If you won’t leave him, Sherlock. If you won’t let me have him…”

“What? You’ll kill me? I had hoped you’d be more inventive than that, Mary, but I suppose not all criminals can amuse me.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’m used to it by now. Everything about you turned out to be a disappointment. From the secrets you hid to the way you didn’t know how to hide them very well. I was rooting for you. Up until the moment you handed John that empty flash drive, I was in your corner.”

Mary kept quiet for a long time, staring Sherlock down, her head held high. Sherlock had to give it to her - she did have an air of dignity that never faltered, at least not that he had ever seen. He wondered if he could ever break her, if anyone could. What would it take to truly break Mary Watson? Not even appealing to her sentimental side - _No, Mrs Watson, you won’t_ \- seemed to have any effect. As far as high functioning sociopathy went, Sherlock was quite out of his depth with her.

She was just about to respond when their attention was brought to the door. Before he even entered, Sherlock knew it was John. He was glad he had his gun with him, but he didn’t want him to have to use it. He never wanted it to be like this.

“John. Good of you to join us,” Mary barely even flinched at his arrival.

“Yeah, well, hard not to notice waking up all alone. Figured you’d pull something like this,” John retorted accusingly, aiming it at both of them. He went to stand next to Sherlock, glancing in his direction, no doubt making sure he was unharmed for the time being.

“Sherlock and I were just discussing you. John, you better stay exactly where you are, or we may reach a conclusion sooner than anticipated,” Mary stated simply, pulling her gun out of her coat pocket and aiming it at Sherlock.

John lifted both arms up, a peace offering, his gun in his left hand turned towards the ceiling. “Alright, take it easy. Let’s just talk about this like adults.”

“A little late for that. I thought you were going to be discreet about this, Sherlock,” Mary said. Sherlock cocked his head slightly and heard it; the unmistakeable sound of a trained operative… two trained operatives.

“I was discreet. You know my brother. Know-it-all,” Sherlock quipped, even though his heart was beating as though it may escape his thoracic cavity. The closer the operatives got, the less chance he had of surviving this. While his death wouldn’t be the absolute worst outcome, John’s welfare couldn’t be seen to without him. He had to think fast. Mary seemed to sense his panic and lifted her other hand to grip the gun more securely.

Decidedly, Sherlock turned around and pushed John onto the floor in a fluid motion, grabbing hold of the gun as he did so. In the panic, Mary didn’t even shoot. She just kept staring at Sherlock, aiming the gun at him, even as he aimed John’s gun back.

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse,” Sherlock said.

“Seems that way,” Mary answered. “Although…” she intoned and aimed her gun slightly left, on John.

Sherlock knew when his hand had been forced. He shifted slightly to cover more of John’s body with his, forcing John to remain on the ground. As soon as Sherlock lifted his arms in surrender, an operative burst into the bar, yelling at Mary to drop her weapon. In the confusion and adrenaline, Sherlock’s mind went perfectly blank just as he heard the shot.

———

“John! John are you alright! I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry…” Sherlock kept repeating while hovering over John.

John just blinked at him, worried about the fact that he was shaking. “Sh- Sherlock! I’m fine!” he said assertively, struggling into a sitting position, which was proving to be quite a chore since Sherlock was half on top of him, seemingly checking for any injuries. 

“I’m fine,” he repeated, forcing his friend to look at him. Sherlock looked like a cornered animal, his eyes wild and afraid. Sustaining eye contact, John saw all he needed to see in Sherlock’s. Sherlock loved him. It wasn’t an act or a game or a sham or a manipulation technique. He never really showed it before - even when he said the words at John’s wedding, his body language and tone didn’t reflect it. But in the moments following the operative’s warning shot, Sherlock was utterly exposed and bare; the damp glint at the corners of his eyes betraying the mask he normally maintained. 

After a couple of beats, Sherlock finally stood up, his eyes on John’s the entire time. He offered John his hand, pulling him up, too.

Both of them steadfastly avoided Mary’s gaze as she was taken away. John didn’t say it aloud, but he could have wept from the relief he felt that she didn’t have to die.

Sherlock said nothing at all as Mycroft filled them in on their plan from there - securing Mary’s transfer to America, where the CIA would reclaim and enforce whatever punitive efforts they saw fit. He still said nothing as he and John took the lift up to their room.

Once inside, John assumed they would be heading back to Baker Street, and was surprised when Sherlock went to lie on the bed, his back towards the door and John. It was well on its way to sunrise, so John reasoned that he was perhaps too tired to pack up and leave. 

John approached the bed with caution, not wanting to darken Sherlock’s mood. As soon as he had made himself comfortable on his back, Sherlock caught him off guard by flipping towards him in a huff, burying his face in John’s neck.

“John. John, I don’t… I didn’t know what to do… I thought…” Sherlock was mumbling into John’s skin.

“Shhh,” John soothed as he smoothed his hair down and squeezed at his neck. “It’s okay. I’m alright. It’s alright, Sherlock, I’m fine.”

Sherlock lifted his face fractionally to assess John’s. “This is why… If… If she had done something. To either one of us. What good would it have done? I’ve always said that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. I couldn’t afford this loss, John. I - I wouldn’t have been able to…”

“I know,” John stated plainly, and he really did. He had suffered Sherlock’s loss and it had broken him. Still, he knew that eschewing all attachment wasn’t the answer. If anyone should have been hesitant to go down this road, it should have been him - the one who had faced the loss, who had seen how it could destroy him.

“But, John. Now that it’s done. Now that I can, I need to say… I’ve needed to say for quite some time…”

“I know,” John beamed, “I know.”

Sherlock exhaled in what John assumed was weary relaxation, shifting into his now-customary position with his nose buried in John’s neck. 

John adjusted his body a bit so that they were closer together, slipping his leg between Sherlock’s, his arms around Sherlock’s torso, holding on as though the moment would never pass. Categorical contentment ran through him, his entire body loosening and quietening. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and Sherlock, in turn, shifted impossibly closer as their breathing slackened into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> [Follow me on Tumblr.](http://johnwatso.tumblr.com/)


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